I Am.

I am

but a speck of dust.

An atom

in a world of rust.

I am

the insecurities of which I refuse to speak

the very things that make me weak

I am

my weight

my scars

my holes

and my wars.

I am whole

and I am not

I am.



I lie back, switching off the tap with my foot. There is no point to them bursting in to see a river on the porcelain floor.

Porcelain. I am porcelain.

Beautiful, white and doll-like.

And fragile. So fragile.

I lift the blade off the side of the tub, again twirling it in my fingers. Bringing my thigh to my chest, I inspect the freshly cut wound I inflicted upon myself. I slide further into the water. It is now up to my mouth.

Water has always been a friend, a constant presence.

It reaches my nose and I am inhaling, filling my lungs. I submerge. My hair rises as I push myself further into the tub. My head thumps as my body begins to chant for oxygen.

Instead, I shut my eyes.

I am drifting, I feel it deep in my bones. The blade I held tight in my hand now loosens, threatening to give way. The last thing I remember, was it slipping through my grasp and hitting the floor. The sound echoed in my ears before,



I am home alone.

The bathtub is warm and inviting and my blade is calling out to me. Tell me, what pleasure has it given you to see me suffer?

I slice the upper part of my thigh, the one just above the recent one ; a fresh, new spot for the fresh, new hatred I feel towards the Earth and its blinding and disgusting lie of beauty.

I turn the dial up and slide in.



The scorching heat makes its way up my body, past my navel, just above my chest. The water now rises to my neck, reaching my chin as it spills over. I hear it lazily overflowing, like how a glass of water spills when it’s too full, or how you jump into a pool and ripples crash over the sides.